


and I count my sins

by Iseethatsubtext



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Five Times, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 02:16:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iseethatsubtext/pseuds/Iseethatsubtext
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn’t happen how Stiles wants it to happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and I count my sins

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Bleeding Out by Imagine Dragons 
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr (iseethatsubtext)

It doesn’t happen how Stiles wants it to happen.

 

It isn’t shockingly romantic. Derek doesn’t run after him in the rain, quickly overtaking him and blocking his path. He doesn’t grind his teeth and dig crescent moons into his palms until gritting out “Don’t go.”

Derek doesn’t grab his shoulders and press his mouth against his, cradling his cheeks in the downpour. It doesn’t go like the notebook and Stiles doesn’t get to snark that Derek should’ve brought him an umbrella to go along with that mind-blowing kiss.

 

It doesn’t happen in his room. Derek doesn’t sit on his bed, watching him type away at his computer trying to find the solution-of-the-day for the monster-of-the-week. 

Stiles doesn’t keep glancing back at him, noticing the slight droop in his posture with each subsequent look. He doesn’t get distracted for ten minutes by a disturbing tale of seduction as a sea-monster-weapon. He doesn’t turn around again, and Derek isn’t curled up on his bed, asleep and alone and jagged.

Stiles doesn’t walk over to him, doesn’t shake him gently, doesn’t brush his fingertips over his too-warm forehead; Derek doesn’t startle awake, claws coming out in wariness, before retracting back into his fingertips.

And Stiles doesn’t lean in and kiss him, so softly that they both could forget about it if they wanted to.

 

It doesn’t happen with blood and dirt and tears. Stiles hasn’t just been mauled by a rogue omega, isn’t bleeding out in Derek’s arms like a tragic romantic heroine. Derek doesn’t panic, doesn’t call his name, doesn’t slap him, doesn’t plead for him to stay with him.

Stiles doesn’t cough, doesn’t "hack up both my lungs, I swear to god Derek." He doesn’t order Derek to take care of Scott, of the pack, of his father. Stiles doesn’t tug at Derek’s sleeve and tell him to stop calling for an ambulance, it isn’t any use, he can see that light everyone always talks about and it’s not that great, it’s actually kind of a rip off, and can he get his money back?

And Derek doesn’t laugh so bitterly it dries up the words tumbling out of Stiles’ throat, and he doesn’t lean in and smash his lips against Stiles’, saying sorry, saying please, saying I don’t love you yet but I think I could.

Stiles doesn’t rattle out his last breath trying to say "me too."

 

It doesn’t happen in the grocery store. They aren’t grabbing cans of minestrone soup and endless cartons of frosted flakes. Stiles isn’t surreptitiously putting packages of oreos and milkduds and trashy magazines into the cart, and Derek isn’t rolling his eyes and putting them back on the shelf when Stiles isn’t looking.

Stiles doesn’t trip his way into windex display, doesn’t knock all the bottles and himself onto the floor. Derek’s eye doesn’t twitch the way Stiles always says it does whenever he’s trying not to laugh, and he doesn’t help Stiles up with a grumbled “idiot” that Stiles knows better than to take to heart.

They don’t make eye contact, suddenly intimate under the fluorescent lights; Stiles doesn’t give in to impulse and kiss Derek, abrupt and intense, in the middle of the kitchen supplies aisles. Derek doesn’t soften into it, or run his thumbs through Stiles’ growing-out hair. They don’t ignore the whispers of the old ladies at the end of the aisle or the giggles of kids running through it.

They don’t carve out a moment for themselves out of cleaning solution and spiking heartbeats.

 

It happens it a forest. It’s dark and it’s dirty and there’s bark sticking to the back of Stiles’ hoodie. He’s eighteen and he’s been waiting oh so long for this. It’s rough because he wants it to be, it’s rough because he pushes.

Derek has control, Derek always has control.

But it’s silver and black and tongue on teeth on tongue and it’s the day before the full moon and it feels dangerous.

 

It doesn’t happen like Stiles wants it to happen.

But he’s got stubble and dirt and a hint of fangs against his cheek and it’s enough.

It’s enough.


End file.
